


Golden Boy

by Madeira_Darling



Category: Wraeththu - Storm Constantine
Genre: BDSM, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hair Kink, Haircuts, Homophobic Language, M/M, Military, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:47:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29646678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madeira_Darling/pseuds/Madeira_Darling
Summary: Terzian's vain, Ponclast uses his vanity to break him further.
Relationships: Ponclast/Terzian (Wraeththu)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Golden Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Manticker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manticker/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Give Me Steel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29026623) by [Manticker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manticker/pseuds/Manticker). 



Ponclast’s eyes were like those of a predator watching prey as he observed Terzian at the mirror. He knew him intimately, knew every line of Terzian’s slim graceful form, every noise he made in the heat of passion, every sensitive place on his body and in his mind. He knew Terzian and Terzian didn’t know him, not really. Nohar did, and that was good.

Something about Terzian at the mirror though… he cocked his head slightly to the side, considering what it was about the sight that itched. Terzian was vain. That was obvious to anyone who watched him for more than a few moments. He was careful with his looks, from the fashionably cut honey blond hair, to the perfectly tailored clothes, to something about the way he carried himself. He knew he was beautiful, and for all his masculinity, Terzian wore that beauty like a society belle wears diamonds. That hair… it was short as was the custom for Varr warriors, but not  _ that _ short, certainly not short compared to Ponclast’s brutally utilitarian military crew cut. It was long enough to flop seductively into his eyes, long enough to play with, long enough to pull, or to fuss over lovingly in the mirror, as he was doing now.

“Admiring yourself?” asked Ponclast. “If you’re going to act like a hostling, maybe I really should give you my pearl.”

Terzian turned, tense, abashed to be caught preening. 

“No, Lordra, just ensuring that I was presentable…” he said. Normally he knew better than to waver, to be anything but a soldier in Ponclast’s presence, but the line of attack was unexpected. It had thrown him off balance.

Ponclast’s eyes narrowed. He’d struck a nerve and knew it. He was sprawled on a chair, utterly at ease-- a serpent sunning itself, but ready to strike at any moment.

“Yes, you do tend to become mussed fairly easily,“ he said, raking Terzian again with his gaze. 

Terzian wanted to object, but couldn’t. These private meetings weren’t the place for him to have objections. They might argue back and forth in the war room, but here in Ponclast’s private apartments, the archon’s word was beyond law… holy writ, commandments from on high, incontestable and incontrovertible truths.

“Yes, Lordra,” he agreed, smoothing the leather of his uniform. He was suddenly and painfully self-conscious.

“And you must admit, you are a  _ bit _ vain,” Ponclast remarked. “That pretty hair of yours, the way you dress…”

“Lordra?” it was a question.

A question Ponclast chose to answer with another.

“Who cuts your hair for you? Some pretty little soume-har who likes running his fingers through it, and blushes when you look at him too hard? Do you roon him for his trouble? Does he coo over how handsome you are? How  _ ouana _ you are?”

Terzian flushed. The color rising was visible even through his tan.

“Something like that, Lordra,” he agreed, eyes down, hating how perfectly Ponclast had captured the scene. Ivani was just as his Lordra said, a fawning bit of fluff it was hard to believe had ever been male. Sometimes Terzian wondered if he had a ‘lim at all. He remembered, though, the hume he’d been. He’d seen him shivering in the cold in the pen with the little band he’d been caught with. They’d been trying to steal from a farm on the outskirts of Galhea. Something about him had been feminine even then. He must have been a faggot, a fact which made Terzian’s lip curl in distaste. Still, Terzian enjoyed being pampered, fussed over by pretty soume hara. It made him feel-- 

“Does it make you feel like a man?” Asked Ponclast, as if he’d reached inside Terzian’s head.

“No, Lordra, it just--”

Ponclast was up and on him in an instant, a hand fisting in Terzian’s hair, shoving him against a stone wall, and forcing him to look him in the eye.

“You like the way they look at you, roon? Like you’re some romantic fairytale prince come to sweep them off their feet?”

Terzian felt crushed against the wall. Ponclast’s knee was between his, forcing his legs apart, and their torsos smashed together so tight Terzian’s ribs ached and it was hard to breathe.

“Yes, what of it?” said Terzian, lifting his chin, a flicker of rebellion in those blue eyes.

Ponclast laughed and threw him to the floor. Terzian caught himself with his hands as his Lordra planted a booted foot between his shoulder blades.

“Because it’s soft. Because it makes you look like a preening dandy,” he replied, bending down to give his silken hair another sharp tug, “If you’re a soldier, you ought to look like one.”

Terzian froze then, his mind finally putting together just what was happening here. This was still so new, what their relationship had become. Terzian was still learning Ponclast’s rules. They so often seemed to change at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll get it cut to your specifications, Lordra,” he said, eager to appease. Shades of his father, memory. He didn’t want the haircut, but anything was better than Ponclast’s displeasure.

_ What the fuck are you doing staring at yourself in the mirror like that, boy? You think you’re pretty, huh faggot?  _

_ All that hair makes you look like a queer. Stop crying. Be a man, you little shit. _

Ponclast considered, imagining the scene-- Terzian going to his hairdresser with Ponclast’s instructions. He could imagine the look of dismay on the har’s face; could imagine his unhappiness at being ordered to shear off those perfect golden locks; could imagine Terzian silent and stoic in the chair as he watched them fall to clippers wielded by a reluctant hand. As much as the idea pleased him… he had other plans.

“No,” said Ponclast, before removing his boot from Terzian’s back, and using his hair as a leash to bring him to his feet. “Get that chair and put it in front of the mirror,” he instructed.

Terzian looked baffled, but did as he was told.

“Sit,” ordered Ponclast. 

Terzian sat.

“Look at yourself,” ordered Ponclast. 

Terzian looked.

“What do you see?” asked his archon, and Terzian gazed in bafflement at his reflection.

“Myself, Lordra?” he replied, clearly unsure what he was supposed to be seeing.

“No, what you see is a pretty blonde faggot,” said Ponclast.

The words rankled. Terzian wanted to stand up, punch Ponclast in the jaw and walk out. But he couldn’t, so instead he said, “Yes, Lordra, I see a pretty blonde faggot.”

“Do you like being a pretty blonde faggot, Terzian?”

“Yes, Lordra?” he replied, utterly unsure.

“I see, well,” said Ponclast, “in that case, do you think I ought to have a pretty blonde faggot as a general? Should I be sending a pretty blonde faggot out at the head of my army?”

“No, Lordra?” Terzian was at a loss. He normally felt on such solid ground with Ponclast. Ponclast lead and he followed. They’d developed a routine. It worked. It made him feel safe and at ease. What Ponclast wanted from Terzian was usually so clear. Now, however, he was lost.

“That’s right, roon,” said Ponclast in a condescending tone, giving his hair another yank. “Now, who do you think I should be sending out at the head of my army?”

“A soldier,” replied Terzian, beginning to understand.

“Right again!” said the archon, with a pat on the cheek that was nearly a slap. “Now, you can be a pretty blonde faggot all you like when you’re at home, but when you’re with me… when you’re out in the field, you need to be a soldier, am I clear?” 

“Yes, Lordra,” said Terzian, stock still, back straight in the chair. 

“Strip, then sit down there and stay,” ordered Ponclast. “I’m going to sort this out myself.”

“Yes, Lordra,” said Terzian. He seemed to have fallen into a kind of trance, pupils dilated, something far away in his voice. He stood up and stripped in a daze, folding his uniform on autopilot, before returning to sit obedient and passive in the chair. Ponclast returned with scissors and clippers a few moments later. He observed Terzian, naked and beautiful as a Grecian statue. He was soume for him already, and wet, dripping on the leather upholstery. Later, he’d probably make him lick it clean.

Ponclast didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He simply took up the scissors, lifted a large section at the front of Terzian’s hair, and sliced it off without hesitation or care. Terzian winced and Ponclast smirked, running the gleaming blades of the shut scissors along Terzian’s jaw.

“Are you worried you’re not going to be so pretty after I’m through with you?”

Terzian hated this. Hated that Poclast was doing it. Hated that he was letting him do this. Hated how vulnerable Ponclast made him feel.

“Yes, Lordra,” he said in a small voice.

“Well, I don’t think it really matters who likes the look of you except me, does it, roon?”

“No, Lordra,” he agreed, though it made him want to weep. The idea of Cobweb, or Ag forbid,  _ Cal  _ seeing him like this… he could only imagine what Cal would say.

_ “Interesting look. Did someone mistake you for a hostling? No, no I like it, it makes you look very masculine, not at all like you’re compensating for something.” _

His cheeks burned. 

Ponclast took his sweet time lifting the next lock. The sound of the scissors sent shudders down Terzian’s spine as another hank of fair hair fell into his lap.

His hair was thick, and so it took some time for Ponclast to remove all the bulk. Terzian watched in the mirror, unable to react as his reflection changed before him. He had come in composed, elegant, masterful. The brutal scissor cut he was receiving made him look vulnerable. His face without its accustomed frame seemed somehow fragile, and painfully young.

Ponclast finished with ruthless efficiency, and flicked on the clippers. Terzian hadn’t felt them since he was a hume getting the regulation haircut for the mandatory military service that the safe zone had required of young men at the time. They were almost erotic now as they sheared away most of what remained. What was left in their wake was a thick velvety pelt even shorter than Ponclast’s. He looked even younger like this, a recruit again, not even har yet, though the slickness between his legs struck a dissonant note with that tide of memory. 

Ponclast too noted the change, and appreciated it. He would let Terzian grow it out before going home. Harish hair grew fast, after all. Terzian could wear it how he liked back in Galhea, but with Ponclast, this would be how it was. His Terzian wasn’t a lord, he was a soldier and Ponclast his commanding officer. 

Ponclast glanced down, noting again the wet readiness of Terzian’s ‘lam, and got an idea. Hara lack most body hair, but pubic hair… they do have that. 

“Spread your legs,” ordered Ponclast. 

Terzian looked at him, terror on his face for a moment, but he followed the order.

“Clean yourself up down there. I don’t like the hair,” he said, dropping the still warm clippers into Terzian’s hand. 

Terzian was so aroused and ashamed he wanted to die, but he obeyed. It was quick work. There wasn’t too much to start with. Without it his soume state was even more painfully obvious, lewd and wet, no cover at all. When he’d finished, Ponclast nodded approval and turned off the clippers.

“We’re done,” said the archon, grabbing Terzian by the freshly exposed ear and pulling him up. As he stood, a flood of hair clippings fell to the floor from his lap. 

“Yes, Lordra, thank you, Lordra,” said Terzian, dropping to his knees before him.  _ He really is such a good little soldier, _ thought Ponclast as he extended a leather gloved hand to rub the freshly shorn head of his subordinate. The whisper of stubble against leather drew a wintery smile to Ponclast’s shapely lips, and made Terzian shudder. He felt utterly naked now, not even his hair to hide behind, his body wide open, ready to be used.

“Unzip me,” said Ponclast, turning to lean comfortably against his desk.

Terzian obeyed without hesitation, a hungry mindless thing, unzipping him with his teeth and nuzzling out the rock hard lim beneath without the use of his hands. Just like they’d practiced. Such a good little soldier.

He was almost drooling when he got him into his mouth. Ponclast was icy but utterly relaxed. He let Terzian work for a few minutes before cupping the back of his velvety head and forcing him down. Terzian gagged, eyes watering involuntarily. This was how Ponclast liked  _ his _ Terzian.

“That’s right,” came the velvet and ice shard voice, “that’s what your mouth is for. That’s what every last one of your holes is for, when it comes to me. No one else uses you this way. Is that clear?”

Terzian nodded without stopping. Ponclast thrust into his mouth, taking what he wanted. Terzian shuddered at the leather against his nearly naked scalp. The contrast between them now seemed more profound than ever. There should have been more resemblance if anything, but somehow the haircut had just widened the gulf between master and slave. His lam twitched, aching to be filled, and he closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment.

Ponclast was getting close, thinking about Terzian, about all the ways he broke for him, about every point of no return he’d pushed him past; and when he was at his own, he pulled his lim out of Terzian’s mouth and spilled aren all over that perfect face and the good little soldier haircut he’d just given him. He was soundless as he did, every reaction utterly internal, an impassive idol but for his lim.

Terzian took it like mana from heaven, like some wonder of the world. 

Ponclast laughed a short sharp laugh and said, “Go clean up all that hair and bring it to me, then take a shower.”

“I shouldn’t burn it, Lordra?”

“No,” said Ponclast, “yours I intend to keep.” 


End file.
